Your Fingers Are My Favorite

Your fingers are my favorite

though much more could be said.

Whiskered whispers, wickedness,

you hold me down in bed.

Brown eyes going black on top

as you push so deep inside;

the way I always stretch for you,

how you never let me hide.

It’s the tease inside your touch,

fingertip against my clit

that breaks me down

to who I am, compels me to submit.

And when those fingers enter,

I hold them in so tight.

Two commas curl inside me

remove all wrong from right.

A magician with a flourish,

you wield them like a trick.

Your fingers are my favorite thing

to feel and then to lick.


Kristin Garth is a poet from Pensacola and a sonnet stalker. In addition to Horny Poetry, her sonnets have stalked magazines like Luna Luna, TERSE. Journal, Occulum, Anti-Heroin Chic, Drunk Monkeys, Ghost City Review, Neologism Poetry Journal and many other publications. Her chapbook Pink Plastic House is available from, and her second, Shakespeare for Sociopaths, is forthcoming from The Hedgehog Poetry Press in January 2019. Follow her on Twitter: @lolaandjolie

I Love The Way You Say ‘Fuck’ & Our Two-ness

I Love The Way You Say ‘Fuck’

I’m in the palm of your hand—

both figuratively and literally

You say:

“I’m so into you”

I say:

“both figuratively and literally”

You laugh from between my legs

twist your wrist

quote Lacan

into the skin of my thigh.

your voice is vibrating

as it gets muffled into me

I can’t comprehend much

except my grip on the pillow

except my mouth forming frantic, filthy

endearments muffled into

my own palm.

I hold the words there

stretch them outward to you

stroke your cheek with them

when you look up at me.

Our Two-ness

Thinking about you

eating me out makes me

cry now.

You said it was the

closest you’ve ever gotten

to meditating.

You said this while

I was on my back on the floor

in my parent’s basement.

I’m at work now. I thought about

that a lot though, you know,

at work.

“Fuck, Baby,” you’d say—

in your eyes I’d see my face

reflected back.

Even when you weren’t talking

your mouth

always moved dialectically.

Now, instead of heat and blood—

warm syrup pouring

into my stomach and lower—

my heart beats a funeral dirge.

I wear black panties in mourning.


Alyssa Ciamp is a scientist, a writer and an aries continually growing into herself. She tweets regularly about her work and also about the woes of being horny @ClinicallyChill. Find more of her work on her website:



his lips are the ellipses between my clumsy words.

I tell him I like you too but what I mean is

I’m two beers away from calling him God,

a glass of wine away from losing

all feeling in the upper hand.

the folds of my body open like

evening primrose, like petals thrown

on dishevelled mattress, pinot noir languor,

murmuring to the candles, to myself, to all

that is melting and wavering

to lie still for him.

change fell from his pockets as I watched him get dressed

and he left it on the nightstand like payment.

he told me I was perfect, but what isn’t

perfect by candlelight?

he keeps me like a wildflower in tap water,

like half-finished poetry. I keep him like

a spellbook under my mattress.

what is an affair but looking

for a self you lost in someone else?




Rebecca Kokitus is a part time resident of Media, PA just outside Philadelphia, and a part time resident of a small town in rural Schuylkill County, PA. She is an aspiring poet and is currently an undergraduate in the writing program at West Chester University of Pennsylvania. She has been previously published by Philosophical Idiot, Lemon Star Mag, and Show Your Skin Journal. She tweets at @rxbxcca_anna.


Act Now

If the flowers decline to tell the bees why
they are tasked with stretching the thread
of continuance all the way to the garden’s edge
—or why they must adumbrate its shaky lace
even in the face of hard hands or a wet
summer—then why should we have to move

so far from this godly meadow, one move
shy of the brutallest checkmate? At the Y
I watched your legs resist equipment, wet
like the dogs no one shakes or the thread
no one can make go into the needlelace
because it’s borderline, too near an edge

to manipulate. If I ask you to edge
before I get home it’s because I move
too slowly anyway—I want to lace
your bones with shimmering desire, the why
to want’s what, the unhidden thread
we lay bare in the rich, soily wet

of mid-May, our brief spring’s groaning whet-
stone. Who brought us to the edge
of living? Which forum thread
told us the exact dimensions of the move
we needed to make, and why
on earth didn’t we tell anyone? Two lace-

less cleats, cast up high in the one place
you’ll never be able to reach them. A sweat
ring wrung permanent in the bedclothes. Why
not fool around a little before work, at the edge
of our shared wakefulness? Don’t move,
I’ll turn off this seemingly endless thread

of alarms, your morning body’s warmth red
and breathing next to mine. If my place
in the universe were at even a small remove
from yours, my ugly heart would pirouette
out across the roof of the world to a ledge
off which I’d leap / towards you. This is why

I’m so afraid to thread your wet
hair anyplace but through mine. The edge
is too close to move. I hope you see why.


By Nathanielle Dawn

cranberry juice & no sexual healing

what do her lips taste like?

do they taste sweet

like she smothered them in bubble gum?

or is the taste slightly bitter

like cranberry juice?

probably the latter

so when her kisses become bitter

was it due to texts left on read?

was it due to sex becoming the only way you connect?

does the routine go like this:

you both touch each other

until it burns both of you like an open flame

then you go in for another kiss

only for her lips to taste like

cranberry juice again

at this point

not even Marvin Gaye himself

would sing Sexual Healing for you


Vanessa Maki is a writer (& other things) who is queer & full of black girl magic. She’s been published in Enclave, Faded Out, Rag Queen Periodical, Occulum, Five:2:One Magazine & SYS. She also founded/runs an online literary journal for qpoc.

Blooming Late, Talking Dirty

At 15, I was two padded bras, layered,
masquerading as breasts
not blooming late but
a thistle knot: unyielding.

At night I’d steal away
and call phone sex lines
hoping there was enough intimacy
in this world for a thistle girl

there were those oozy voices
one minute, thirty seconds
I liked them
they were achy bloody sticky, felt like friends

they taught me to think about what
to say for sex
harder deeper squeeze me drown it
I never talked back, but I think they could hear my thorny wishes:

give me something
touch me.


Rita Mookerjee’s poetry is forthcoming in Lavender Review, Sorority Mansion Review, and Spider Mirror Journal. Her critical work has been featured in the Routledge Companion of Literature and Food, the Bloomsbury Handbook to Literary and Cultural Theory, and the Bloomsbury Handbook of Twenty-First Century Feminist Theory. She currently teaches ethnic minority fiction and women’s literature at Florida State University where she is a PhD candidate specializing in contemporary Caribbean literature with a focus on queer theory. Her current research deals with the fiction of Edwidge Danticat.

Ava Gardner

I read once that Ava Gardner kept her face wrinkle-free
by stretching and clasping the hooks she’d sewn into
the back of her head.

This kind of beauty, I read, would be impossible today
because those hooks would be caught
by high-definition cameras.

Like hooked-Ava,
not Mogambo Ava (who could compare oneself to Mogambo Ava?),
I am not a high-definition beauty.

I am glorious by candlelight,
toned and lined and shaded, and stunning
in Polaroid, angled in profile, ripe from the rear.

But in high-definition (or in fluorescent),
I am terrifying, round eyed with awful
nostrils and feminine lips.

My chest is too large and
my shoulders too slim, and I worry that my eye skin
looks like foreskin.

So meet me after midnight under the gaslights on Drury Lane
and we’ll step into a candlelit pub and drink our fill.
You’ll look at me and think I’m the most beautiful boy you’ve ever seen.


Like Sharon Stone and the zipper, Mike McClelland is originally from Meadville, Pennsylvania. He has lived on five different continents but now resides in Georgia with his husband, son, and a menagerie of rescue dogs. His is the author of the short fiction collection Gay Zoo Day (Beautiful Dreamer Press, 2017) and his work has appeared publications such as the Boston Review, Queen Mob’s Tea House, Permafrost, and others. Keep up with him at